The Many Waves of Princess Ariel
by Spacemin Spiff
Summary: It had never occurred to Ariel that she shouldn't be enjoying every kind of touch, every kind of man, every kind of wave she could ride.


(AN: Done for the Disney Animated Kinkmeme)

The red brick rim of the baker's oven felt rough on the delicate skin of Ariel's hips, but not as rough as the baker's hands did on her back. Her legs, thrown with abandon over his shoulders, kicked sporadically in response to his deep, unfaltering thrusts. She gripped the ash caked stone of the oven with her delicately manicured fingernails so that she could press her hips fast against his, so that she could feel every thrust, every twitch. Ariel glanced at the man's face, ruddy with effort. He had a fine mustache. She liked the way it felt when he pressed his face between her legs, when he lapped at her breasts. She looked past his face, spotting her spread toes, delicate and pale. She laughed with wild abandon, throwing her head back, her hair falling away from her breasts, honoring every naked, sweat dappled, passion tensed, utterly _human_ inch of her body. The baker released, with a grunt, inside of her, and Ariel embraced the stark force of her own orgasm, like a storm wave so thick with salt it feels like sandpaper. As he pulled out she ran her legs over his shoulders, embracing the stubble at the base of his neck with her calves, teasing at his brown hair with her toes, giggling like a child on a Ferris wheel.

Ariel skipped out of the bakery, her feet bare on the cobblestones, her palms covered with scrapes, her basket heavy with fresh rolls. Eric said that she really shouldn't bother shopping in the village; they had cooks and bakers and butchers in the castle after all. But she insisted that she liked the bustle of the market, the calls of the vendors. Which was true. It reminded her of her life under the sea, picking out fresh bunches of kelp and socializing with the merchants. Of course, she had never socialized with the mermen the way she does with the human men.

She walked into the Bucher's shop with a bit of a twirl, the ribbon in her hair fluttering behind her like a gossip that couldn't wait to see what the princess was going to do _now_. The butcher looked very much like the baker, a large man with a proud beard and rough hands, but the two were very different. While the baker liked to work quickly and wordlessly, the butcher liked to take his time, liked to appreciate every inch of her with his tongue, liked to hear her scream. Ariel loved to scream. The feeling of the air in her windpipe, rattling her vocal cords like a cattail in a storm, the harsh and bitter aftertaste. She liked to scream herself hoarse and drink hot tea afterwards, when she was sticky and starting to feel a chill on her shoulders from the cool breeze that signified summers end, the breeze that fluttered in from the Bucher's bedroom window.

On the night of her wedding, lying in Eric's arm's, Ariel had discovered an immediate passion for sex. She liked the Prince very much. He was curiously hairless and slim, but muscular. He embraced her as if she were a china doll, the skin of his palms even softer than hers, opening her like a flower. She had moaned at his touch, parting her legs on instinct, taking him in ever so slowly, ever so wondrously. Her first orgasm was like a warm wave breaking, spreading foam onto the soft sand of the shore, embracing it.

But Ariel knew there were many kinds of waves. There were small trickling ones that kept marching one after another; there were ones that slammed against the rocks of the shore as if in fury; there were ones that came unexpectedly and forced you under, tumbling and bruising you before spitting you back to the surface; there were ones you didn't see as much as feel, ones that moved below the surface with a will. And she wanted to dip her newfound feet in every one of them.

She walked out of the Bucher's shop with a package of salted pork under her arms, her breath hot and smelling of chamomile, her ribbon looking wilted as if it had borne the burden of her lovemaking, as if it were Dorian's portrait and she Dorian, proud and unfettered by guilt. She was off to the florist. She was going to get a nice bunch of wildflowers for the bedroom and a quick fuck from the skinny blonde boy at the counter. While the butcher, the baker, and… Eric (It was really a shame there were no candle makers in the village) were all so sure in their actions, he was insecure, nervous. He would fumble with the laces of her dress, mutter in fear about the Prince finding out. Sometimes his anxiety would dampen his passion and Ariel would have to use her tea scented tongue to inspire him. She found it quite amusing that he was so worried; it had never occurred to her that she shouldn't be enjoying every kind of touch, every kind of man, every kind of wave she could ride. Speaking of which… Ariel's eyes shifted to a new shop, the paint on its sign still fresh. "Greengrocers" it read in overenthusiastically looping script. Ariel beamed.

It seemed like as good a time as any to get some lettuce.


End file.
